


Black Eyes and Blood Lust

by the_beating_of_her_wings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Blood Drinking, Daddy Kink, F/M, Graphic Violence, M/M, Questionable Consent, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Smut, Wincest - Freeform, naughty filthy fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8181610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_beating_of_her_wings/pseuds/the_beating_of_her_wings
Summary: A non-canon adventure with Soulless Sam and Demon Dean working together. If you read the Teaser, this is the actual story, based on a "what if" conversation about Demon Dean & Soulless Sam having to work together.After Metatron murders Dean, Sam sells his soul to bring him back, not knowing he will return as a demon. Without his soul, Sam's demon blood addiction comes back to haunt him, and he now has a renewable supply chained up in the dungeon. With Dean now a Knight of Hell and Sam powered by his blood, they are more dangerous than they've ever been. The boys are also going to explore their new relationship dynamic.





	1. Chapter 1

Steam, hot and cloudy, swirled around Sam as he stood in the shower, eyes closed on a meditative quest for peace. The water cascaded over him, flowing down over his soaked hair, now hanging in messy curls across his face and plastered to the back of his neck. It ran down through the deep channels formed by the muscles of his arms, across the chiseled landscape of his chest and belly, over the slope of his low back and the high curve of his ass, finally raining down the exquisite length of his legs. The drain at his feet swirled with browns and reds, a wretched slurry of his blood, his brother’s blood, dirt, and the lingering stickiness of cold hearted sex.

Sam took a deep breath. He still felt dirty. Filthy. He soaped up again, massaging himself in a thick, woodsy scented lather, trying to be gentle with himself, to take care when his hands passed over open wounds and scarlet bruises, and there were so many of those tonight. His deepest wound, however, could not be touched by hands, his or anyone else’s. His loss. That wound would be left to fester and, if he was very lucky, eventually heal, although it would leave an ugly, disfiguring scar on his very soul. He turned his face up to the water, let it wash over him, rinse him clean once and for all, washing away all feeling with the dirt. He could not cry any more than he had already, or vomit any more. He was empty.

A chill washed over his back. A female voice, like cold seduction, came from behind him.

“Good evening, Sam.”

Sam jumped and spun, putting his back to the wall. He pushed his hair back from his face to see his visitor.

She was tall and blond, bright eyed and freckled. She was attractive, though with an air of underlying danger, like a lake frozen over with thin ice. She slowly looked Sam up and down, appreciating his naked form on display in the stark bathroom lighting, so wet and inviting, so perfectly sculpted as though he had been made by the Hands of God Himself as a gift to someone important. Such enormity, such beauty, but the saddest eyes she had ever seen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly, his pounding, hung over head struggling to understand her sudden appearance.

She smirked to herself at his total lack of self consciousness. His nakedness was quite distracting.

“I’m here to take your soul, Sam.”

“You can’t have my fucking soul,” he said incredulous.

“That’s not what you said last night, baby.”

_Yesterday_

Sam had witnessed his brother’s murder, seen him stabbed in the chest by an angel, held him in his arms as he died. Dean tried, in his final moments, to comfort Sam, to reassure his little brother that it was ok, it was all going to be ok, that they had saved the world and Sam would carry on just fine. But Dean was wrong. Sam could not live without him. He saw his own life bleeding out onto the floor with Dean’s. He had held his brother to him as hard as he could, believing in the madness of his grief that his love and will alone would be enough to keep Dean alive, keep them together, but he failed, as he felt he had failed Dean so many times before. No amount of tears could revive him, no number of screams enough to bring him back.

Sam shut down, switched to hunter mode. He put Dean over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, lifting his nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight with ease, and walked away without looking back. He gently laid Dean down in the back seat of his beloved Impala, his Baby, now his funeral coach, and covered him with the tattered old blanket he had slept with for most of his life, many nights in this car. Sam drove off into the night, numb, his grief dammed up. He took them home.

Somewhere down the road, far from where they’d been and still far from home, the levee broke. Tears assaulted Sam’s vision, obscuring the road. Sam didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but the dead man lying behind him. Part of him, the self-destructive, angry Sam, said fuck it, floor it, drive head-on into a tree and just be done with this pain. Another part of Sam, the good brother, told him he had to take his brother home. What he did with himself after that didn’t matter. But Dean deserved to go home one last time.

Mile after mile of black, shapeless highway stretched on forever, until Sam caught sight of a hazy glow in the distance. Neon signs drifted into focus, advertising various brands of beer and live music. Sam pulled into the parking lot of the roadhouse. It was nondescript, low-rent, a feature-less shithole like so many they had visited before. The tears returned the moment he turned the car off, the deep rumble of Baby’s big block no longer masking Dean’s deathly silence. Sam cried until his eyes and throat burned, the windows long since fogged. He climbed out of the car and stumbled, bracing himself against her and retching violently. He spit several times, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Still shaking, he made his way to the trunk. He stripped from the waist up, his jacket, flannel, t-shirt, all covered in blood. He threw them carelessly in the trunk and fished out another flannel, not clean but not bloody. He kept the sleeves rolled down and buttoned it all the way up, hoping to conceal the fact that his skin, glistening with a thin, sick sweat, showcased a mosaic of dried blood. He didn’t even realize the shirt was Dean’s until he put it on and caught his brother’s scent, the most familiar thing in his world.

Sam stepped into the bar, breathing in the smoky tang, on a mission to numb his pain.

*

Long past the witching hour, the neon signs flicked off, the music stopped. One tall, lonely man, the last man standing after more drinks than should legally be served and a couple of fistfights, staggered out the door into the warm spring night. He staggered around back, looking for a place to piss, and stumbled across the last thing he needed to find in his current state of mind: a crossroads.

Sam waited impatiently, sloppy drunk and desperate, having buried the small box in the center of the crossroads.

“Well, well, well,” came a woman’s voice through the darkness. “Sam Winchester.”

Sam turned quickly, too quickly, throwing off his equilibrium, the night spinning erratically around him. He leaned to his left and vomited, not for the last time that night.

“You ok there, Sam?” she cooed. “You don’t look like you should be operating heavy equipment or making important life decisions right now.”

“Shut up and let’s deal, bitch,” he growled. His mouth was watering and he knew he was going to be sick again.

“Let me guess, your soul for Dean’s life? The Winchester Special?”

“Fuck you,” Sam spat. He staggered away, heading to the wrap-around porch on the back of the roadhouse. “You know you’re interested.”

“Maybe,” she said, following Sam, but keeping a wary distance. “Have you thought this through? I mean, _really_ thought this through.”

Sam looked back over his shoulder and glared at her. “You give me back Dean, I give you my soul,” he said. “Kind of a no-brainer. Not too much thought required.”

She shrugged. “You assume I’m even interested.”

“You know you want it.”

“Oh, Sam,” she purred, “I bet you say that to all the pretty girls.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, his lips tightening.

She winked at him. “Maybe I do want it. And maybe I want you to give it to me.”

“Let’s deal, then.”

She took the porch steps one at a time, slowly, allowing Sam a clear view of her long legs as her skirt rode up with each step, knowing he would look in spite of himself. She had chosen well, a tight young meatsuit that looked just enough like Jessica to muddle Sam’s brain. Just the sight of her, regardless of the circumstances, in her short white sundress, her skin glowing in the moonlight, scented like vanilla and amber, stirred a dormant longing within him.

“What are your terms?” she asked, stepping closer.

Sam smiled triumphantly and looked up. She followed his gaze up and saw the devil’s trap he had painted on the porch ceiling before summoning her. She looked back to him, their eyes meeting. She returned his smile and continued walking toward him, watching with dark glee as his eyes widened.

“I’m no crossroads demon,” she purred, her voice like silken ice.

“What are you?” he asked as he backed away.

“I'm a reaper, you can call me Dawn.” She smiled at him, shaking her head. “Sam Winchester, you piece of shit. Did you honestly think any demon would ever deal with a Winchester again?”

“Why are you here?” He had regained his composure somewhat, now that he knew what he was dealing with, but he was still far too drunk to stand without swaying and speak without slurring.

“I can give you what you want, but on my own terms.”

“No,” he said firmly. He may be drunk and aroused but still understood this was a bad idea. His plan hadn’t worked and she had the upper hand, putting him in a very dangerous spot.

Dawn blew him a kiss and turned away. She made it down the steps before he stopped her, overcome by his grief.

“What are your terms?” he asked too quickly, giving himself away.

She continued her seductive stroll. “I give Dean his life back and I take your soul,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to be sure he was keeping up.

“How long will you give me?”

“One year.”

“No deal.” He stopped in his tracks.

“Goodnight, Sam,” she said over her shoulder, walking toward the parking lot, her stride rhythmic, the swing of her ass hypnotic.

His head was spinning, nothing she said made sense, and all he wanted was Dean back. “What do you want with my soul if you’re not a demon?”

“None of your business,” she called back.

With his long strides he caught her quickly, grabbed her arm, and spun her around to face him. 

“Careful, Sam,” she said with a small pout. “I only borrowed this suit for the night.”

A storm of emotions rolled across Sam’s face. Fear, grief, rage, regret. Dawn watched with cold interest as his face expressed every conflicting thought, though his eyes only expressed his deep sadness. This was a broken man, and a broken man was a useful man. He could be glued back together in a new shape, with a new purpose. A broken Winchester was especially useful.

“Fine,” he choked out. He yanked her in close, leaned down into a harsh kiss. When she did not respond he tried parting her lips with his tongue, but she pulled back, regarding him with a chilly smirk.

“Really?” she asked, mocking him.

“What?” he growled, losing his patience with the reaper and her deal.

“It’s going to take more than a half-assed kiss to seal a deal like this.” She looked up at him and pursed her lips suggestively.

He let go of her arm as quickly as he had grabbed it. He had fucked enough monsters in his lifetime, this was not going to happen.

“How’s Dean smelling?” she asked, her voice as wicked as her intentions. “The longer he rots the more work you’re making for me, and I’m not required to reverse any of that damage when I wake him up, so unless you want to live in an episode of The Walking Dead for the rest of your life, get your shit together and consummate this deal.”

Sam hung his head, flung his arms gracelessly open. “Take what you want,” he said with a heavy sigh.

She wagged her finger slowly at him. “Not like that, Sam. I’m not going to _rape_ you. This is your deal. I need your agreement, Sam. I’m not going to take it from you, that’s coercion, that’s a deal breaker. You have to give it to me.”

Sam swallowed hard. He had to have Dean back. Dean deserved to live, and he never had to know. When the hounds came, Sam would make sure he was away from home, he’d make it look like an accident. Dean never had to know.

“The terms, one more time,” he said. His head was reeling but red flags were going up, it felt too easy.

“I bring Dean back to life. I take your soul in exchange. You get one year with your brother.” She spoke slowly and clearly so he could follow.

More red flags raised. More alarms went off. But despair has a funny way of justifying the worst decisions.

Sam knelt in front of the reaper, slid his rough hands up under her dress, the cool smoothness of her thighs a stark contrast to the calloused warmth of his hands. He hooked his fingers in her panties and pulled them down to her ankles, inhaling deeply as the fresh scent of her sex hit the night air. He hated himself in that moment, down on one knee before a monster, her panties in his hand, his mouth watering for a taste of her. She ran her fingers through his dirty, matted hair. He pushed her dress up to her hips and buried his face between her legs. She tasted as good as she smelled, fresh and sweet, already wet for him. He worked her open with his tongue as she stroked his hair, drawing him in with her caresses and wonton sighs. He was soon hard enough to do what had to be done, so hard there was no turning back.

Dawn was patient with Sam. She knew she had her deal, she may as well enjoy herself.

Sam let her dress slip back down as he stood. “Where?” he asked, licking her off his lips, his voice whiskey thick.

She motioned to the Impala. “How about the hood of your brother’s precious car?” Her voice was both cruel and seductive. He wanted to punch her, hard, and fuck her even harder. The world spun faster around him and he fought back another wave of nausea. He gave her a shove toward the car and she laughed a delighted, twinkling laugh like wind chimes in summer. When they reached the car he shoved her again, turning her so she was facing the hood. He put his hands on the backs of her shoulders and attempted to force her down. She laughed again, such a sweet sound so out of place in the dark gravel parking lot of a run-down bar in the midst of a deal for a man’s soul.

“Oh, no,” she said, her tone darkening as she turned to face him. “You’re going to look me in the eye the whole time.” She reached down and ran her hand over the tight, hot bulge of his jeans.

Sam sneered, fed up with her teasing and bullshit. He sat her down onto the hood, pushed her legs apart. She hooked her high heels into the bumper and leaned back on her elbows. “Come on, Sam,” she taunted. “And don’t be gentle, it’s not my first time.”

Sam unbuckled his belt, opened his jeans, letting them drop just below his ass. He gasped as his cock, straining against the jeans that trapped it, was finally free, the warmth of the night feeling chilly against the searing heat of his skin. He stepped in close and grasped her firm thighs, pulling her closer. He slipped his hand between her legs, running a finger along the slippery cleft, back and forth as she tilted her head back and smiled in the moonlight. He explored her for a moment, tracing nonsense patterns in her wetness, before slipping his finger inside her. He slicked up the head of his cock with his wet fingers, lined up with her, and dove in, driving his large cock deep into her. He gripped her hips and pulled her closer to him, thrusting all the way into her. He maintained the eye contact she demanded, watching her watch him as he worked his way up to a punishing pace, unleashing a sexual brutality he hadn’t realized was there. Sam was always a gentle lover, but not tonight. Tonight he came unhinged, as though he could fuck away his pain, his guilt, all of his suffering and give it to this bitch in exchange for his brother’s life. She continued to speak to him, to encourage his savage thrusting, though he could no longer hear her. He was lost in the overwhelming sensation of the hardest fuck he’d ever had. He couldn’t stop himself now if there was a gun to his head.

Sam and Dawn screwing on Baby’s hood bounced her up and down, with increasing violence, jostling Dean’s body in the backseat. His arm slid out from under the blanket, and hung off the seat, shaking lifelessly to the rhythm of Sam fucking his soul away. Sam tried not to see it, his dead brother’s hand, bouncing with every thrust as though scolding him for failing him again even in death. Sam looked back into the reaper’s eyes and saw nothing but cold lust and it broke him further. But her dirty whispers spurred him on, her sweet wetness drowning him as though she couldn’t get enough of him. Her taut, freckled body comfortably took everything he gave. He felt his balls tighten and the pit of his stomach roll, and he knew what was coming. He pulled back, but Dawn locked her legs around him, pulling him back in deep.

“Finish,” she demanded. “Finish, and your brother lives.”

Sam closed his eyes tight and grunted through a powerful orgasm that rocked his whole body. He bucked uncontrollably, filling her up, bruising her hips with his grip. At one point he shouted, in relief or rage, it didn’t really matter. The deal was sealed. The reaper released her legs and Sam staggered backward out of her. He stood there panting, still a bloodied, sweaty wreck, pants down to his knees, Dean’s old shirt barely covering his bare ass. Without warning he fell to his knees in the sharp gravel and vomited again, harder this time than any other time tonight. The reaper walked up gingerly and knelt by his side.

“Sam, is that blood?” she asked, referring the puddle of sick splattered across the gravel. “How much did you drink?”

“Give me Dean,” he choked out, then vomited again.

“He’ll wake up in a few hours,” she said with a snap of her fingers. She rubbed Sam’s back, almost like a concerned friend, though he knew better. “Now, do you want to know the kicker?”

Sam looked her with red, watery eyes. “What?” he growled, his mind rapidly searching through his mental files on reapers, ready to kill this one quickly and efficiently.

“The Mark of Cain on his arm? It means he’s not dead, not really. He would have woken up on his own. But, he’s not done cooking yet. He is a Knight of Hell now, the last of them, in fact, a pure demon. But that process takes time, and you just had me slam him back into that cirrhotic cadaver he calls a body just a little too soon, so who knows what kind of black eyed maniac you have on your hands.”

Sam took a swing at her but she vanished before he connected. _Bitch._ He struggled to his feet. If what she said was true he had to get Dean back to the bunker before he woke up.

*

Sam’s panic died down the longer he drove, the events of the evening smeared away by the morning light. He carefully carried Dean, still cold and dead and wrapped in his beloved old blanket, into the bunker. He stripped him down, washed him with gentle care, redressed him, and laid him on his bed. Dean was home. Dean was home and in his own bed. Nothing else mattered now.

Sam wandered to the kitchen. He knew he should rehydrate, but he just couldn’t bring himself to drink any water. He looked in the refrigerator, but had no interest in eating. He stood alone, kept company only by the deafening silence of the bunker. He made his way down to the dungeon, desensitized to the tears in his eyes. He picked up the demon-warded shackles. He considered what the reaper had told him about Dean and wondered if he should chain him up, though the thought of shackling his brother’s dead body made him sick. He traced the sigils with his finger, then put them in his pocket absent-mindedly, and resumed wandering, lost in his own home, half expecting Dean to toss him a beer when he crossed back into the kitchen. No such luck. Dean wasn’t there. He never would be there again.

Sam’s grief was overshadowed only by his shame. He had gotten shit faced and let a reaper play a cruel game with him. And after all was said and done, his brother was still gone. It was about time for him to build a funeral pyre and finally let his brother go. He returned to Dean’s room, seeking whatever comfort he could get from his presence, perhaps talk to him for a while, one last time. He froze when he opened Dean’s bedroom door.

Dean was gone.

It wasn’t until a moment later when the hammer struck his back that Sam realized what had happened. He turned quickly and saw Dean, smiling a lunatic smile, eyes black as hell, raise the hammer up again. Sam ducked, narrowly avoiding Dean’s swing, landed a solid punch to his gut and took off running.

 _Fuck_.

Dean hunted Sam mercilessly, hammer in hand, landing a few more solid blows before Sam overpowered him, successfully shackled him and carried him, kicking and screaming, to the dungeon. What else could he do? Dean’s screams no longer sounded human. He was pure demon, Sam could try to deny it all he wanted, but it was the truth. He was wild, frenzied, a rabid animal.

“Did the Mark do this to you?” Sam asked. Dean replied by spitting in his face.

“Dean, I need you to come back and talk to me,” Sam pleaded.

Dean stared at his brother for a moment, eyes wide and black, struggling to think, to understand what was happening to him. He started screaming again, that inhuman, demonic scream. He showed no sign of stopping.

Sam hung his head sadly. He squeezed Dean’s shoulder, even when he tried to bite, then left the room, locking the heavy doors behind him. Only then did it hit him just how badly he was hurt, and how badly he needed a shower.

*

“You said I have a year before you claim my soul,” Sam snarled.

“That’s not what I said,” Dawn replied, calm and matter-of-fact. She closed in on Sam, the water soaking her delicate white dress until the fabric clung to her body, revealing the curve of her breasts, the prominence of her nipples, the flatness of her belly. Her blond hair darkened when wet. She seemed both more attractive and more dangerous.

“You said—“

“I said I will wake Dean, take your soul, and give you a year with him. I’m not going to kill you, Sam, not right now. I’m just here for your soul.”

Sam stared in disbelief. “You screwed me,” he whispered, more to himself, as the previous night’s conversation played back through his mind.

“Actually, you screwed me. And it was fantastic,” she purred. “Oh, and just so you know, this little coed I’m riding was a virgin until last night. Can you believe it? That’s so rare these days. It’s sweet, really. But you are a very big boy, Sam, and you can’t imagine how much pain she is in today, how badly every step I take hurts her. Me personally, I enjoy that hard-fucked feeling. But this little thing, she’s just been crying since you put it in her.” She looked down for a moment, then back up at Sam’s horrified face. “Oh, gee, Sam, I hope you didn’t get her pregnant. What kind of man doesn’t carry condoms? Is it that rare for you to get any action, or do you just want to litter the earth with a new generation of cursed, alcoholic fuck-ups?”

Sam grabbed her shoulders and slammed her into the shower wall. Dawn laughed her summery laugh at him.

“You play the gentle giant, but you do seem to like it rough, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” he spat. He was completely unarmed, naked and slippery wet, unsure how he was going to destroy her and do it without further harming the young woman she was inside of. He had only a moment to think. With a snap of her fingers he found himself slammed against the front wall, pinned, helpless under a cascade of water.

Dawn lifted a small, empty bottle pendant from inside her dress, and placed her hand on Sam’s chest. A moment of white hot, blinding pain later he found himself just standing there. He felt… different somehow. Hollow. He stood up to his full height and glared down at her.

“Why the fuck are you still here?” he asked, cold, emotionless.

She smiled, holding up the pendant, now pulsing a beautiful silvery blue. “We need to discuss your soul, Sam.”

“Toss it,” he said with a shrug. He was feeling more comfortable every minute. No guilt, no worry, no loss. Cold, hard Sam again. Just how he liked it.

“Oh, I think I’ll hold on to it. Keep it right here, close to my heart.” She dropped it back down into her dress, giving Sam a quick flash of her breasts. “I need your services, Sam. You are a great hunter, perhaps even then best when you’re… unburdened.” She stroked the pendant chain around her neck for emphasis. “Hell has gotten unruly. Crowley’s demons are running amuck, out of control. There are no checks and balances any more. No consequences. The demon populations are out of control.”

Sam shrugged. “And I care because…”

“We’ll get to that. They are upsetting the balance, the natural order of things, and we’re helpless to stop it. I want you to start culling the herds, if you know what I mean. You have a certain gift for demon extermination. I need you to start using it. You have one year, as per our agreement.”

“Why should I help you?” Even his tone of voice was different. Colder, more metered. His warm hazel eyes lost in a cold fire. He seemed bigger, no longer trying to shrink himself to make others around him comfortable, he was formidable. He was the cold blooded killer Dawn needed for her war against Hell.

“One year from tonight, if you’ve done everything I’ve asked, we will continue the arrangement. If not, you’re dead, and this,” she patted the pendant through her dress, “will be the last piece of your consciousness remaining in the universe. A shiny little Sam. Soft, gentle Sam. I could drop kick it out into The Empty. I might take it into Purgatory and whore you out to every monster you’ve ever killed. Or I could take you to Hell and let some real demons, I mean the nasty fuckers that they don’t let topside, pass you around. My point is, don’t make another bad decision, Sam, or you’ll have eternity to regret it. I want the demons put in check, and you’re going to do it. I don’t care how.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles worked furiously. He could probably kill this bitch with his bare hands and bury that damn pendant. He looked her over. The shower wasn’t doing no wrong for her, that white dress was almost as transparent as the steam, clinging to her in all the right places. Her nipples were hard, dark and prominent through the buttery soft whiteness of her dress. Sam stepped closer and reached out slowly with his left hand, cupping her breast, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her nipple, feeling the firm resistance. He squeezed her breast, and when she didn’t stop him, he brought his right hand up to touch her as well. 

Dawn tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Sam swooped in and kissed across her throat, moving his hands from her breasts to either side of the wall behind her. He pressed in close and she allowed it, welcoming him with pornographic signs. She tangled her fingers in his hair. He kissed across her shoulders, worked his way back up her throat to her mouth, his kisses growing more aggressive. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, moving his large hand up to her throat. He could strangle her easily, but he didn’t want to hurt her just yet. He pressed his rock hard cock against her belly, the friction of her dress against it sending fire throughout his body. She moaned into his mouth, slid her hand down the length of his wet body and stroked his length a few times, petting it like a wild animal she wanted to tame. She started to pull up her dress but Sam took over, pulling it all the way over her head and discarding it on the floor. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back harder, matching his aggressiveness, coaxing more out of him. He suddenly grabbed her hips and lifted her to his waist. She wrapped her legs tight around him. He reached around, under her ass, and found that sweet, slippery cleft again, running his fingers through the slickness. He ran a finger inside her, making her moan again. He pulled it back out, slid forward, fingered her clit, then back inside her. She moaned louder and bit his lip. He continued the pattern until she was dripping wet and ready for him. He lined up with her and lowered her down onto his cock, grinning while she gasped with every inch. He buried himself to the hilt. She looked him dead in the eye.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she challenged.

Sam leaned her against the wall and began thrusting. He was big, filling her, making her gasp with each deep thrust. She dug her nails into his back and whispered filthy things in his ear. His whole body was solid rippling muscle, his stamina amazing as he rolled his hips in a perfect pace, never sacrificing depth for speed. Dawn’s cries grew stronger, he felt every muscle in her body tense. He watched her face carefully and followed her cues until she was screaming his name, experiencing this body’s first orgasm, riding it out as long as she could. She went limp for a moment, shaken to her core. Sam pulled out of her and set her down on her feet. He turned her around and coaxed her to her knees, then all fours. He dropped down and entered her from behind, resuming the punishing pace, although going even deeper in this position. He gripped her hip with one hand, the other wrapped around her long hair, pulling, holding her head back. Dawn arched her back and pushed back against him. Sam felt his own orgasm building. He needed his. He had needed this so badly for so long, just a good, hard fuck without feeling or concern or guilt. He didn’t even care if she was enjoying it or not at this point. He was, and that was all he cared about. Dawn reached back between her legs and squeezed Sam’s balls. That was all it took. He pulled out quickly and came all over her back and ass, his eyes rolling up, his mouth falling open.

“See you in one year,” Dawn said, and vanished with the snap of her fingers.

Sam stood up, and washed himself for a third time. Just over the sound of the shower Dean’s screams could be heard echoing down the hall and throughout the bunker.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam parked the Impala, her paint dusty, the chrome of her front bumper stained with blood, in the bunker’s garage with little regard for her condition. The souls of the boys who loved her for so many years and called her home were lost. The most important object in the universe was now nothing more than the third killing machine in an unholy trinity that was coalescing from the ashes of a family.

Sam had been gone for several days, hunting, salting and burning his way across the Kansas countryside. He had managed to take down a pair of skeevy demons, but it hadn’t been easy, and they had gotten a few jabs in before he had burned them up from the inside out with his demon blade.

Sam stripped naked in the laundry room, peeling his gore-crusted clothes away from his smooth, tan skin, examining his bruises and lacerations as he undressed. Nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own, other than a long cut that ran the length of his hip, carved deep into his flesh. That was going to need sutures. He walked, large and nude, speckled with blood, still riding high on the rush of the kill, through the twisting corridors to the first aid room. He noted the distinct silence. Dean had finally stopped screaming. Maybe he was dead, or passed out. Whatever, it didn’t matter. Sam was confidant his warded shackles had held and Dean wasn’t waiting around a corner with a fucking hammer. He would go check on his demon brother after a quick patch up and a long, hot shower.

.

Dean had stopped screaming days ago. Resurrection was disorienting to say the least. He had woken in a bloodlust, snatched prematurely from someplace dark and sticky, consumed by the rage he kept so tightly locked away his entire life. He vaguely remembered how good the hammer had felt in his hand, and the electric jolt of red hot pleasure that had flooded his bloodstream the moment the hammer made contact with Sam, the solid impact of muscular flesh, the sudden give of cracking ribs. It felt good, and he wanted more of that feeling. It was reminiscent of his time in Hell when the only way to stop the excruciating pain was to inflict it on someone else, when he had finally broken and picked up the razor and for the first time sliced deep into a screaming soul. Those first moments of relief had been sweeter than any orgasm, sweeter than the taste of any fresh, willing pussy, sweeter than drinking himself numb and passing out parked on some back road with starlight spinning around him and the mingling scents of sweat and old car leather so thick he could taste it. He itched all over with the need to hit Sam with the hammer again, and again, and again until there was nothing left to hit.

Dean squirmed in his seat, perched on a hard chair and chained down like an old time illusionist, trapped by Sam’s hand carved demon binding shackles. He itched all over, his body reacting to the lack of violence, and he began to sweat. His mouth watered each time he caught a lingering draught of Sam’s scent. His mind reeled, occasionally assaulting him with random memories, though the images and feelings were out of sync, jumbled and terrifying. He kept seeing Sam, remembering a life spent with his brother, and each time Sam appeared like a ghost haunting the space behind his eyes the itching would intensify, and the Mark on his arm would throb and burn. Dean could hear himself snarling, feeling the saliva drip from his gaping lips.

Over the course of the next few days Dean settled, his body adjusting to this new state of life, finally accepting the demon within. The longer he was awake the more his head cleared. He was beginning to feel like Dean again, only altered, in the best way possible. All of his guilt, his fear, his worries and cares, everything that had ever made him human was just a lingering bad taste in his mouth. He felt something stirring deep in his belly. Needs, dark needs he did not yet understand, scratched at him from the inside, attempting to rise. The Mark burned and whispered to him through his blood, revealing the truth of what he had become.

He tested his bonds, looking for weak spots, imperfections in the magic, but Sam was smart and meticulous and the shackles held. Dean was not just a demon, but a Knight of Hell, and as such most demon warding or binding magic should not work on him. All that research into the Mark, desperately searching for a cure, and Sam knew more about Dean that Dean knew about himself, including how to trap and bind him.

_Damn you, Sam._

Dean shifted uncomfortably. There was a distinct chance that if Sam continued hunting, and his apparent absence indicated that he was, he might be killed on the job, leaving Dean a prisoner in the bunker for who knew how long until someone accidentally discovered and released him, not unlike so many of the monsters they had hunted down and killed. Sick of being bound he struggled again, hoping for an extra boost from the ancient, hellish power coursing through his veins. The magic held. Sam was too good. He must have seen this coming, these shackles were not a rush job, he had put some serious time and effort into their construction.

_Fuck._

.

Dean heard footsteps down the hall and began to itch again, beneath his skin.

Sam stepped into the dungeon, tall and broad, his shower-warm skin steaming in the cold air. He wore only jeans, riding low enough to tease the top of his well groomed pubic hairline. He was shirtless and barefoot, no longer self conscious about the body he put so much effort into sculpting, no longer needing to feel safe, no longer giving a fuck about trying to appear smaller than Dean, more diminutive, letting big brother be the alpha. He stood in the doorway for a moment, letting Dean get a long, hard look with his glittering black eyes.

Dean curled his lip, baring his teeth. Though his expression was aggressive he looked less like a dangerous animal and more like a very dangerous man. Sam smirked. Something about the way Dean looked bound in chains stirred strange feelings in him, dark and forbidden, the idea of which caressed his cock from the inside.

Dean’s sneer pulled back into a smile. Sam looked happy to see him. Imagine that.

Sam crossed the room on long, powerful legs, shadows slithering over the contours of his body as he passed under the bare light bulbs swinging from the ceiling. He regarded Dean without words, looking him up and down, drinking in the composition of fine meat without the filter of a brother’s love. He walked around him slowly, observing, wondering.

“Oh, come on, Sam,” Dean said, his cockiness not lost in his demonic state. “You just gonna stroll in here with your come fuck me eyes and not even say hi?”

Sam centered himself in front of Dean, sat back on the table, smiled a soulless smile that could chill the bravest of men. Dean looked up at him with a smile of his own. Sam slipped his demon blade out from the back of his jeans. He leaned over, resting one hand on Dean’s knee, pushing in close. He brought the knife up, ran the blade slowly down Dean’s lips, looking at his beautiful mouth then back to his Hell-black eyes.

"Oh, Sammy,” Dean purred, “I never figured you to be one for foreplay.”

Sam licked his lips, dark urges coiling around and within his cock.

Dean could see through his demon eyes that his brother was a cold shell. His soul was gone. No trace of it remained. All he could see when looking in Sam’s eyes was cold fire and deadly intent.

“Sam—"

Sam plunged the blade deep into Dean’s chest. Dean gasped in shock and agony. Sam pulled it out slowly, leaving just the tip inside his brother, then twisted the blade and plunged it in again. Dean cried out. Sam drew the blade all the way out with a wet pop, drove it in again. Once he started he couldn’t stop himself. He stabbed Dean over and over again, listening to him gurgle as his lungs filled with blood, watching him convulse in his death throes.

Dean grew still, his bleeding slowed as his heart stopped. Sam placed the blade on the table and sat in the chair opposite Dean’s dead body, propped his feet up casually on the table. He waited. With little need to eat or sleep he could wait. Something in the air, though, harassed him, ran its ghostly tongue across the back of his mind, teasing into dark, dusty corners of forgotten things. He cleared his throat, pushing back against a long dormant pull. He glanced at the demon blade, glistening with blood. Demon blood. Sam scowled. He was not a monster. Not anymore, not for a very long time. He hunted and killed monsters. He hunted and killed demons, as many as he could, so that reaper bitch couldn’t turn him into Purgatory’s favorite whore. But still, the scent seemed to call to him, whisper sweet sick nothings in his ear. His eyes were drawn to the blade, to the way the light played on the blood. He gritted his teeth and waited it out, watching it slowly dry, waste away. Movement suddenly caught his eye.

Dean stirred, a sticky, bloody, aching mess. He opened his red-rimmed eyes and saw Sam watching him. He spat out the blood pooled in his mouth.

“What the fuck, Sam?” he asked, his voice deep and hoarse.

Sam cocked his head and watched Dean reacquaint himself with breathing. His research had told him that a Knight of Hell would be immortal. He could not destroy or exorcise Dean. The shackles seemed to be holding up. He could see Dean’s muscles flexing tirelessly under his shirt, straining, looking for a weak point, ready to break free and slaughter Sam.

Dean bared his teeth again and growled at Sam.

“Dean,” Sam said, cocking his head again. He did so enjoy the sight of Dean squirming, more than he would have ever thought. To see someone so strong suddenly so helpless was gratifying on so many levels. He had discovered how much he enjoyed such things during his last time without a soul, then quickly forgot after it was forced back into him. His soul, defiled thing that it was, dampened his natural born brutality, effectively castrating him.

“It was an experiment,” he added nonchalantly, answering Dean’s earlier question.

“You stabbed me seventeen times,” Dean spat.

Sam shrugged. “It’s my lucky number.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That really hurts me, Sam.”

“I bet it did.”

“And what did I ever do to you?” Dean’s art of snark had not been lost in his demonization.

“You hit me with a hammer, Dean,” Sam sighed with a pout.

Dean pursed his lips. Sam was right, he had attacked him with a hammer in his first-woken confused blood rage. He had never been a morning person. He raised his hands and shrugged.

“You know, last time we had a heart to heart like this you were cryin’. I was dyin’. And you still had a soul.”

“I got better,” Sam said with a small shrug. He smirked, though the smile did not reach his eyes.

“And where exactly is your soul, Sammy?” Dean asked, his voice still husky. Not that he cared, but he was curious. He had died in the arms of a weeping, broken mess and woken up to this soulless monster.

“That’s none of your business,” Sam snapped, his eyes narrowing, his upper lip curling slightly. “I don’t need it. I never wanted it back in the first place. It turned me into a pussy.”

“Oh, that’s a pussy I’d like to fuck,” Dean purred, his cold back eyes locking on Sam’s.

Sam’s jaw clenched, the muscles rippling, his lips tightening. He put his feet down and rose up from his chair, in slow, measured motion, looking down at Dean. He leaned forward and climbed gracefully onto the table, crawling on his hands and knees to the edge in front of Dean, a maelstrom of raw sex and fury in his eyes.

Dean bit his lip as he watched Sam, his cock warming, his blood pounding through him. He was itching again. He wanted to tear Sam apart in every way possible. His eyes grew blacker as Sam leaned in close.

“Good night, Dean,” he whispered, his breath ghosting across Dean’s lips.

Dean never saw his fist coming. Sam punched him hard enough to knock him out. Dean’s head snapped back with the impact, then dropped forward, blood dripping from his split lip.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam nearly fell out of the Impala, her interior smeared with his blood. He was getting damn sick and tired of these fucking demons getting the jump on him. He was beginning to suspect Dawn might be tipping them off. They seemed to be traveling in pairs lately, or small packs like mongrel werewolves. This last group of three had even ambushed him. He was strong, and fast with his blade, but his body could only take so much.

He spat blood on the cold garage floor, dragged himself inside the bunker, pushing himself along the wall with one hand while the other maintained hard pressure on a cluster of ragged wounds parallel to his ribs on the left side of his smooth, rock hard chest.

*

The moment Sam crossed the threshold into the bunker Dean’s black eyes opened. He sniffed the air. 

_Brother_ , the Mark throbbed, tickling Dean with invisible fingers so cold they burned, teasing just beneath his skin.

Dean pulled at his shackles, working every long, powerful muscle in his perfectly shaped arms, testing them, always looking for the weak point. The ancient magic stung his wrists, slowly poisoning them with an unending ache, and he would have been lying if he said he didn’t like the feeling just a little bit. He pulled harder, felt the deep thrum of the growing pain. He felt something stirring deep in his belly. _Needs_. A powerful need to hurt. An even more powerful need to be hurt.

“Sam,” he called out, elongated and hungry. “Sammy.”

He could smell Sam’s blood, his sweat, the darkened line of grime across the back of his neck that came with life on the road. Dean pressed his tongue out into the air and could almost taste his brother’s flesh. He called to Sam again. Taunting. Teasing. Fantasizing.

The Mark twisted and burned deeper.

*

Sam stitched his wounds meticulously, having perfected his technique over the years. There would be minimal scarring. He then showered, drowning out Dean’s incessant cries under a torrent of hot water. Steam and creamy lather ran sensually over his skin like a lover’s tongue, leaving no part of him untouched. Thin rivulets of blood swept over his sculpted belly, down his inner thigh in long streams, coming to circle the drain at his feet. He pushed his hair back from his face, running his fingers through it, long and wet and plastered to the back of his neck.

*

Dean caught the leathery smelling soap, the hot scent of wet skin, the distinct smell of Sam. The Mark grew restless, as did his cock, hungering for something forbidden, hungering for a bite of sin. His shouts grew louder, straining, reaching an almost desperate pitch. He fought his bonds, struggling to free himself, to hunt down his brother and tear him apart in so many ways. His eyes burned blacker, the demon he had become unfurling itself.

*

Sam dressed in battered jeans and a grey V-neck t-shirt. No boxers, no layers. He grabbed the keys as he strode gracefully down the hall.

Dean thrashed in his chair, screaming incoherently, biting at the air.

Sam rode out, wondering where in Kansas one might obtain a ball gag at 4 a.m.


End file.
